


the body remembers

by sweetsinnerchild



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Demons, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:46:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsinnerchild/pseuds/sweetsinnerchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story that might happen on Papyrus' journey to become a priest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soon-To-Be-Father Papyrus and the Skeleton Demon

**Author's Note:**

> so like you see those priest!pyrus and demon!sans art around and boy am i weak for demon aus… and then even tho the main thing there is the sin i was like where is the plot???
> 
> here is the plot no one asked for
> 
> also this chapter is for 0netype for encouraged me on this laughably bad idea i mean like???? christian religion in the underground??? demons from monsters that are like made of magic???? gdi what am i doing with my life?

It’s the same dream.

There’s something chasing them, snarling and hissing and hot on their tails, and they’re running for that building in the distance, the one with the spire. He’s being carried by someone, and even though they’re slipping and stumbling over tree trunks and wet ground, their grip on him never falters.

Someone laughs in the distance, high and cruel, and whoever is holding him simply runs faster.

“Just a bit more,” they say to him, “hold on, Paps, we’ll get out of here."

And they run and run and run, and he sees the building come into view - but suddenly he’s sent sprawling to the ground. He turns back to see them staggering to the side and clutching at their chest.

“Why,” they say, panic rising in their voice, and Papyrus feels himself move towards them, he can’t leave them behind. Something tells him he can never leave them behind, after all they’ve been through. “Why can’t - oh, _oh_.” They laugh, full of despair, before looking up at him.

(He always tries to look at their face, but it always remains a blur.)

“Papyrus,” they finally say, plastering on a smile, “Papyrus, run to the doors, and don’t look back, okay? Just stay there and wait for me - ”

The snarls and hisses grows louder, and Papyrus steps forward, why won’t they move, why won’t they -

“NO,” they shout, and Papyrus stops in his tracks. “Run, Paps, just go, I’ll be right behind you. I- I promise. I’ll come back for you.“

And he feels himself take a step back, and then two, and turns towards the doors of the church and runs. Behind him, they’re shouting encouragement and promises, that they’ll come back for him, _don’t look back, go, Papyrus, run_.

He reaches the door and finally turns around and -

Papyrus wakes up.

* * *

_I’ll come back for you_ , someone whispers at the back of his mind. _I promise_.

* * *

The church he lives in is small, but welcoming.

It’s not as big as the churches in the city many miles away, but he has grown to love the pale brick walls, the grey tiled roof and the spire that rises past the tallest trees in the vicinity. Even though he may feel stifled, in this village where humans and monsters coexist and everyone knows each other by name, there’s a certain comfort to be taken in sweeping the grounds, in welcoming travellers looking for a place to rest their feet for a night. There’s always new tales to be heard, and new people and monsters from across the land to be met and, at one point, a new dish to be sampled.

(He’s tried recreating the spaghetti, with Sister Undyne’s supervision. Everyone tells him it’s his best dish so far.)

And maybe he thinks of travelling, of walking down the road and into towns he has never seen before, of meeting people and trying new things. Father Papyrus, the best priest in kingdom, chef extraordinaire, renowned throughout the kingdom. People would love him and other brothers would gather around him, wanting to hear his tales and try his spaghetti. He’d be an example to them, and they too would be inspired to travel…

But that dream tells him to wait, to stay - and if Papyrus ever leaves, they might come back and he’d miss them. So he gladly takes the sweeping chores, greeting villagers and travellers alike, hoping that one day that someone will walk into the grounds, call out to him and maybe then they can travel together across the land.

After all, they did promise. Papyrus can wait.

* * *

There’s someone standing by the gates.

He’s swept the grounds clear of leaves when he notices the stranger. There’s a hood over their face, but Papyrus can see how they’re staring up at the spire of the church. Perhaps they are appreciating the architecture before they come in, Papyrus thinks, and waits patiently as he sweeps the leaves into a neat pile. But the stranger looks and only looks, never moving from their spot.

Papyrus blinks, and the stranger is gone.

They come back again the next day, staring at the church and disappearing when Papyrus glances away; and the day after, always staring and never entering. Maybe the stranger is shy, he thinks as he relights the candles in the hall, or maybe they really like architecture. Or maybe they’re in a difficult place, and need a sign from up above.

He can be that sign, Papyrus decides, and strides confidently towards the stranger when he sees him again.

“Hello there,” he calls out to them, loud and clear. They start, head snapping down to look at him, eyes flashing in surprise. “Do you require help?”

The stranger hesitates, and he stops in front of them, noticing how short the stranger is. Nevertheless, Papyrus beams at them, encouraging.

“It’s alright to ask for help,” he tells them. “You have to reach out so that someone can hear you! And then surely someone will come to help you!“

There’s a low chuckle, more of a scoff than actual laughter, and the stranger looks straight at him. Papyrus stares into the eyes - no, the eye sockets of another skeleton, just like him. There’s a grin plastered across his face, but something tells Papyrus that he’s not quite happy as he seems.

“not for me,” the skeleton says, low and self-deprecating, before turning away. “if you’ll excuse me- ”

And Papyrus doesn’t quite know why, but he reaches across the fence and grabs the skeleton by his wrist. The other skeleton jerks, looking at him in alarm. Papyrus holds on.

“You can’t say that,” he says fiercely. “You can’t give up! If you give up then nothing will truly change. You have to believe in yourself! And if you don’t, well… I’ll believe in you!“

The skeleton seems well and truly stunned, and Papyrus takes his chance.

“And the first step is talking! So you have to talk to someone you trust. Do you have anyone you trust?”

“no,” the skeleton says, the statement sounding more like a question.

“Well,” Papyrus falters, then soldiers on. “You can talk to me then! I guess I’m a stranger but… we can be friends! I’m Papyrus. What’s your name?“

There’s a long pause, to the point where Papyrus begins to consider whether he might, just might, be pushing too fast and too far, when the skeleton finally replies.

“my name is sans.” He looks to the side. “sans the skeleton.”

“I’m also a skeleton,” Papyrus says, “so I guess you could say we’re not strangers any more!” He nods decisively - this is what he was meant to do, what priests were supposed to do after all. He was meant to help people. “Now that we know each other, you can tell me what ails you!“

“i don’t think you can fix my problems by just talking, pal,” Sans says. “it’s not really a problem, you know?”

“It’s a start,” Papyrus insists. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll get you some of Father Gerson’s tea - “

He turns around, tugging Sans behind him.

“wait, no -”

There’s a flash of heat at his hand - and Papyrus turns around to see Sans sprawled onto the ground, his eye sockets screwed up in pain. His right arm is literally smoking, the dark grey smoke wafting up under the hemp of his cloak. Papyrus steps forward, confused and meaning to help - before he realises that the impact threw Sans’ hood off his head, revealing a pair of curly horns.

Horns weren’t uncommon. The Dreemurrs, the rulers of the kingdom, had long and elegant horns to mark their heritage. But curly horns were different altogether, coupled with how Sans had burnt when Papyrus tried to pull him into the holy grounds - it meant, it meant…

“Are you a demon?” Papyrus blurts out. Sans looks up at him, wild-eyed.

“i don’t want any trouble,” he says, scrambling backwards, “i’m just gonna go now -

“Wait -“

Sans’ eye flashes a bright cyan, startling the taller skeleton. He disappears on the spot, and Papyrus is left staring at an empty space where the skeleton - no, a demon used to be.

* * *

Papyrus has never met a demon before. (To be fair, he has also never met God, nor has he ever met an angel before.) But Sister Undyne had always talked about how demons were cruel, greedy and uncaring - how they were either manipulative, enticing mortals to their whims, or how they would cut down anyone in their paths, leaving a bloody trail in their wake. She had told him about how demons were essentially vessels of chaos, and how they were formed, the weaker ones being mortals that had lost their way, throwing their lot in with the devil, and the stronger ones being fallen angels themselves - and told him that if he ever came across one, to tell her so that she could smite it with her fists.

“Not that you’d ever meet one, punk,” she had laughed raucously, and then proceeded to noogie him.

But Sans had seemed different. Perhaps it was because he was a skeleton monster (and though skeletons were not common, they weren’t rare either), but Papyrus remembers how hesitant he had been, how sad he had seemed. There had been no malicious intent and, in fact, Sans had said he didn’t want any trouble.

So maybe there was more to it than it seems, and besides, Sans hadn’t tried anything. And as a monster of faith, Papyrus should treat all who came to the church with grace. When he had decided to stay with the church, he had taken an oath to feed the hungry, help the needy and clothe the barren. Even though Sans might be a demon, a demon might also need help.

Besides, how impressive would he be if he managed to convince a demon to repent?

His goal clear, Papyrus waits for the demon to return. Maybe it was faith that tells him that Sans would against all odds return to the church, or maybe it was foolishness, but Papyrus waits nonetheless.

“You can come out,” he tells the empty air. “It’s okay if you’re a demon! I won’t hurt you.”

No one appears, but a little setback could not dissuade the future Father Papyrus.

“I won’t pull you into the church again, I’m sorry about that,” he says aloud. “I didn’t know you were a demon then! We can still talk if you have problems - and, also, I’ve never actually met a demon before?” He sets his broom against the fence, leaning on the weathered post. “If it helps, I’m not a priest - well, not yet. I want to be one! But right now I’m still just a brother, so I can’t really do much against you. So please come out?“

He waits, but Sans does not reappear. Then again, Papyrus did not expect to succeed on his first try.

“Take your time,” he says cheerfully. “I’ll be here again tomorrow.”

* * *

“…the leaves. Usually the duties are meant to be rotated, but we don’t have a lot of people at this church. So Father Gerson does the priestly things, Undyne does the shopping, Woshua cleans the church and Shyren does the cooking. I try to offer my assistance, but usually they say it’s okay… Father Gerson lets me watch him sometimes, even if I think he’s making things up on the spot…"

* * *

“…tried the bread in the village. The lady who bakes it makes it with flour and water and cinnamon, and then she kneads it into a bunny shape. She told me she uses a secret ingredient in her bread, and she says it’s love. That’s really neat, but I bet she actually puts some milk in there. I can taste it, it’s tastes like strong bones…"

* * *

“…sometimes, I have these dreams.“

It’s been three days, and Sans has yet to reappear. Papyrus looks out at the empty path leading up to the church, and imagines someone running up the cobblestones, clutching a small skeleton to their chest. He also imagines someone running up the cobblestones, calling out his name.

“They’re really fuzzy, but they always end with someone telling me to wait for them,” he says. He’s told Undyne, who had seemed slightly dismissive - there had been no one when she had found Papyrus lying in front of the church doors, so many years ago. “And even though I want to travel the world, I’m going to wait for them first. They promised me they would come back for me, so…”

“While I’m waiting for them, I can wait for you too,” he finally tells the path energetically. “So come out whenever you want! I can wait all day.”

No one answers him. Papyrus’ smile falters - maybe this is truly a lost cause. What was he thinking - why would a demon stick around just to talk to him? He turns around, grabbing the broom from where it leant against the fence.

“heya.“

He whirls back around - and there is Sans, standing just a ways from the gate of the church, shifting nervously. His hood is down, exposing his curly horns to the world, and his arm seems to be fine - or at least it isn’t smoking any more. A barbed skeletal tail snakes out from beneath the cloth, curling down his right leg.

“so. heh. tadaa.” The skeleton spreads his arm wide, and Papyrus can see the faintest outline of wings flaring behind his back. “i’m a demon.” his grin flickers to uncertain. "you sure you wanna do this?”

Papyrus takes a deep breath, and walks towards Sans with utterly no hesitation. He takes a step outside of the gates, and beams down at the demon.

“I’ve never been more certain in my life. Let’s do this again, shall we?” He holds his hand out for Sans to shake. “I’m Brother Papyrus. Pleased to meet you!“

Slowly, Sans puts his hand in Papyrus.

“sans,” and he grips Papyrus’ hand firmly in a handshake -

 _prrrrrrrrrrbbbbppppppffffffffffffft_.

Papyrus stares down at his hand, where a whoopee cushion is deflating.

“sans the demon,” Sans says, grinning lazily up at Papyrus. “pleased to meet you too.”


	2. How To Train Your Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ppl stay up to study
> 
> i stay up to write about skellies

Sans is a demon.

He doesn’t remember how he became a demon, but he figures that he must have once been mortal at the very least. Maybe he took a wrong turn somewhere in his life, or maybe he was a generally shitty monster, but he supposes that the past is in the past. Nothing to be done there.

(Though sometimes he does wonder, if he would have regretted what he had become.)

It’s not a terribly bad thing, to be a demon. He had wings he could fly with, even if they were a bit unnecessary with his teleportation abilities. He had a rather cool tail to wave about, and even though mortals tended to scream and run away from him when they see his horns, he could always hide everything with a cloak. He supposes that he’s not exactly quite doing his job, which to be fair was succinctly put as ‘ _get up there and make some trouble_ ’, but he’s not not doing his job either.

Thing was, mortals didn’t need any encouragement to be evil. Sans could stroll by and just watch as they convinced themselves they were entitled to treat someone else as less than a person, as they tried to justify all their urges to hurt and harm someone else, as they flocked to church to pray for the mercy that they hadn’t done unto others. He wasn’t quite suited for tempting, using soft and pretty words to gently coax them away from virtue; and he wasn’t strong enough for possession or carnage - so minor evil deeds seem like a fair compromise. A bit of frustration from minor setbacks, a bit of indulgence when he makes a passing suggestion of just this once and a bit of procrastination because laziness isn’t a sin after all, goes a long, long way to corruption.

And sometimes mortals were just so damned hilarious, and innovative. They simply found ways to be even lazier, and invented things that had absolutely no purpose - like the whoopee cushion he had nicked from a town several miles back that he had used on Papyrus.

(The look on Papyrus’ face had been priceless.)

So maybe he would have been content bringing minor mischiefs upon unaware mortals, passing as a traveller and drifting from town to town - until he came across the church.

There’s something about the church that Sans can’t quite put his finger on. It might not be a surprise, considering that he couldn’t get past the threshold of the holy grounds on account of being a considerably weak demon; but there was something else. Maybe he had lived here back when he was a mortal, he reasons, and the sight of the church was a familiar one. But if he had ended up a demon, then that probably meant he wasn’t very religious either…

Or maybe he was overthinking it. There was no way he could even check whether the villagers knew him - he could have died centuries ago, or his name could be anything other than Sans.

He probably was overthinking it, he thinks as he looks up again at the spire, willing for it to tell him answers he’d never get.

After all, would the gods above even talk to him?

“Sans!“

He tears his gaze away from the church spire as Papyrus hurries over, customary broom in hand. The skeleton beams at him, as if he was actually happy a demon came to visit him.

Brother Papyrus is… interesting, to put it mildly. While other beings of the cloth had been quick to lob holy water at him and recite scriptures as fast as they could when they ascertained his true nature, the skeleton had actually asked him to return. At first Sans had suspected ulterior motives - perhaps the skeleton was putting on an inviting front in order to let down his guard. But as time went on, it had seemed more likely that he was less conniving and more… lonely.

Also, seeing the other skeleton’s face each day that Sans hid himself in the foilage almost felt like kicking a puppy. Were demons even supposed to feel this way?

“i tried the cinnamon bun you talked about,” Sans says as a greeting. He offers Papyrus one in a paper bag, who takes it with childish glee.

“How much was it?” He asks, right after taking a large bite out of its bunny-shaped head.

“no idea,” Sans shrugs, enjoying how the other skeleton looks at him in brief confusion. “i stole it.”

“What?” The confusion morphs to alarm. “That’s wrong. You can’t go around stealing things!“

“sure i can,” he pauses for effect. “i just g’ _rabbit_.”

“SANS!“

He winks at Papyrus, who has a small if reluctant smile spreading across his face.

(Puns were another thing that mortals had invented. Sans pretends that the exasperation they brought upon the audience counted as a corruption of sorts.)

“Anyway,” Papyrus says reproachfully. “I know that you are a demon, but perhaps you could pay for it next time.” He leans on the gatepost, and Sans briefly thinks about convincing the wood that it’s a tad too old, and bit too weak, that it should bend and break under the other’s weight.

“i could,” he says instead. “but that’s not very demonic, is it?”

He grins at the skeleton’s countenance, twisted in consternation. Perhaps it’s patronising on Papyrus’ side, to blatantly attempt to convert a demon from his wayward ways, but Sans mostly finds it amusing. If anything, the gestures are just so sincere.

“Well,” Papyrus suddenly says. “It could be. People expect demons to behave demonically, and if you, a demon, behave un-demonically, then won’t they question themselves?“

Sans blinks.

“They might say that wow, not all demons are bad,” Papyrus presses on, “or maybe demons aren’t that bad after all. And then they would be less wary of you, and allow you to do subtler demonic deeds! Like… like eating all of their spaghetti while they’re not looking!”

“that’s your idea of demonic deeds?”

“Well, I would be very honoured if someone were to eat all of my spaghetti,” Papyrus amends.

Sans thinks briefly of arguing back. He promptly decides that it’s far too much effort.

“can’t argue with that logic,” he concedes easily.

“That means you’ll try?” Papyrus says, seizing on the opportunity Sans has given him.

“sure,” he shrugs, and watches as the other skeleton’s eyes light up in happiness.

Maybe he should have given a condition, he thinks later when the sun has set and Papyrus has returned to his quarters. Something that would force the brother to do something he would find morally repugnant.

Or maybe not, he decides. He’d let this whole thing play out, and enjoy the novelty of it while he can.

* * *

He’s keeping himself hidden in the tree, a good hour before his usual chat with Papyrus. Sans had taken the liberty of sneaking into the town hall and going through the records, in the slight hope that maybe, just maybe, there might be a mention of skeletons - to no avail. He had been disappointed - apparently the only skeleton to ever live in Snowdin was a Skeleton, Papyrus. It was almost as if the other skeleton had just simply appeared one day.

His musings are interrupted by a huge shout of, “SANS!” and the mad dash of a certain skeleton to the gates. Sans watches as Papyrus glances around and down the path for him, and notes the steaming dish in his hands.

“Sans,” Papyrus calls out again, clearly excited, and Sans closes his eyes, stepping into the space in front of Papyrus. The tree dissolves, and he opens his eyes when his feet finds hard ground.

Papyrus yelps, and Sans grins.

“you called?”

“Yes, indeed I did,” Papyrus says, recovering admirably quickly. “Have you ever tried the culinary masterpiece known as… spaghetti?“

Ah. So this is the spaghetti Papyrus was so proud of. He takes a look at the hardened noodles and the haphazardly placed chunks of tomatoes it was drowned in.

“can’t say that i have,” Sans says.

“Well. Behold!” Papyrus thrusts the plate of spaghetti at him, and out of sheer bemusement he accepts it. “Witness the creme de la creme, spaghetti made by the Great Chef Papyrus himself!”

Demons do not require sustenance. It was an entirely unnecessary thing, as they were already dead. Nevertheless, Sans takes the fork, and stabs it into the dish, and eats whatever it is that was attached to the tines.

The taste is, in a word, ineffable.

“How is it?” Papyrus asks, eyes wide and eager. “Undyne says it’s my best effort yet!“

He could tell the truth, Sans contemplates. Tell him how his culinary masterpiece was almost inedible, how whoever has been telling him otherwise are shameless liars. He can almost see how Papyrus’ face would fall, and how he would never trust the words of those in his church ever again.

But he could let this lie go on and let the praise go to his head.

“this is the best dish i’ve ever tasted,” Sans lies, like a proper demon would, and watches as Papyrus rewards him with a blinding smile.

Demons do not require sustenance, but Sans finishes the entire plate. It’s not as if he could get sick anyway.

* * *

It has been a month since he had first set foot in Snowdin, to the point where the shopkeeper recognises him by name, and the bartender knows exactly what he likes. They seem content to let him keep his cloak on, and for that he is slightly grateful. Even so, perhaps it is time to move onto other villages - for all of his efforts, his attempts to search for his past has been in vain.

He should have just given up. Besides, finding out about who he might have been might lead him to places he never would have wanted to remember. There is a certain bliss in ignorance after all.

“Sans?”

“sup,” he turns to Papyrus, after staring up at the spire, yet again. Maybe he’s missing something - and maybe he’ll never get it back.

“I have been thinking,” Papyrus begins, almost hesitant. “That after knowing for each other for so long, it is time to move our relationship to the next level!“

Sans stares at Papyrus, completely surprised. Didn’t Papyrus want to be a priest? And weren’t priests required to keep a vow of abstinence? Furthermore, Sans was a demon, even if Papyrus seemed to think he could be anything other than one, a relationship with a demon was certainly another level of wrong. But Sans had never been on a date before - at least, not one that he could remember - and maybe he’s slightly curious…

“I believe we could call each other… friends?”

Oh. That makes much more sense. _Of course Papyrus wanted be friends_ , Sans thinks, fighting the rush of warmth flooding his cheekbones. How could Sans have ever thought otherwise?

Papyrus is still staring at him, so very expectant.

“why not,” he looks away. The way Papyrus is looking at him is rather embarrassing - would he even suspect that Sans was thinking of more than friendship? “we can be friends.“

…why is he so hung up over this anyway?

“Really? Wow!” And that’s all the warning Sans gets before he finds himself being swept up in a hug, his wings unceremoniously crushed into his back. It’s not an entirely bad feeling - he feels warm and almost comfortable, and slightly disappointed when Papyrus releases him.

“Well then,” the skeleton proclaims. “As your friend, we must hang out.”

“we are hanging out.“

“Wowie! I’m already so great at being a friend!”

Sometimes he really can’t quite tell whether Papyrus is real, or a hallucinogenic dream his mind cooked up on its own.

“To be a better friend,” his possibly-a-hallucination newly minted friend continues, “I must ask after your well-being.“

“i’m doing great.”

“Then why do you look so sad?“

The question comes out of the blue. Sans opens his mouth, to deny that he’s feeling sad. Demons feeling sad? What a joke.

But his eyes drift back to the spire, lonely and solemn in the cloudless sky.

“i don’t know,” he says, and feels the way his bones weigh down his body. “i don’t remember why.”

“W-were you mortal once?” Papyrus asks, voice hushed - or as hushed as the other skeleton could get.

“i don’t remember,” and he knows it shouldn’t matter but it does, it does. “i think i was.“

“Is that why you’re always staring up at the church spire? I always thought you had an eye for architecture.”

“i don’t know,” Sans says, quickly deflecting. He was supposed to be corrupting this brother, not talking about his problems. “maybe i just find it in _spire_ -ing.“

Papyrus’ concerned face freezes in the rictus of a smile. “Did you just -”

“i’ve been _church_ -ing for a good opportunity to use this pun, heh. Guess you could say i’ve been _building_ up to it.“

“NYEHHHH!”

* * *

Something’s wrong.

He’s been meaning to leave, to fly out to the next village over - but he’s been thinking just one more visit, one more day, one more week. Maybe after he’s looked through more records, or maybe after he’s tried the bisicle that Papyrus mentioned, or maybe after he nicked a book that Papyrus wanted to read from the village’s library.

He’s been making excuses, he realises, excuses to stay and to talk to Papyrus one more time, to tease the other skeleton and to generally enjoy his company. He’s also been paying the shopkeeper for the cinnamon bunnies he buys everyday to share with Papyrus, he’s been eating the leftover spaghetti Papyrus had cooked from that initial taste session, he’s been… he’s been…

He’s been acting less like a demon and more like a mortal - the ones that he had seen scurrying all over the place, bending over backwards in order to please whoever they were infatuated with. He had previously watched them, silently amused, and had also maybe introduced several obstacles to their lives. It had been funny then, to see them despair and triumph and regret over this feeling called love.

It’s not funny now, when he realises that that’s what this feeling is.

Demons aren’t supposed to feel love. Demons aren’t supposed to smile and laugh, demons aren’t meant for relationships and hand holding and this warm fluttery feeling in his gut.

(Well, the lack thereof.)

But something is wrong; no, something _else_ is wrong. He feels it in the way the air suddenly grows heavier, weighing down like thick sludge on his bones, the way that the birds suddenly cry out, spreading their wings and wheeling away from the copse of trees he’s been sleeping in. The trees rustle, almost if they are bending closer to each other, hungry for warmth and comfort.

A brief moment of oppressive silence, or two.

Then there’s the sound of the fabric of the barrier between hell and earth ripping apart - with the cacophony of agonised howls in the distance. Sans sees it from the branch he is perched upon, back against rough bark, and he watches as a haze of concentrated energy oozes out from the rip in the barrier, gathering into a dark mist on the ground. The mist shrinks, growing darker and darker as it coalesces and shapes itself into a vaguely humanoid shape; a skeleton, actually…

The rip reseals itself just as the blackened mist drapes itself over the skeleton, like a robe of sorts; as two curled horns form, gleaming white at the new arrival’s temple.

There is a small, almost inaudible ‘pop!’ and the pressure is gone. Sans can breathe again - yet not quite.

“Sans,” the demon calls, and Sans spreads his wings, flying down to meet the other.

“gaster,” he says as he lands on the ground.

“My dear boy,” Gaster says, smiling his unnervingly blank smile and reaching out to him with that perforated hand. He grabs San’s own in a deceptively gentle grip and lifts it up. Sans lets him. “How have you been?“

“good,” Sans says quickly. “well, i haven’t been _good_ , but the mortal world is full of sin, i’ve been adding to it.”

“Have you now?” Gaster hums, and maybe there’s the faint screech of static in the back of Sans’ skull, warning him of _dangerdangerdanger_. He ignores it, like how he ignores Gaster playing with his hand, intrusive fingers tracing along the metacarpals and phalanges. “What have you done?“

“plenty,” Sans says, all confidence. Really. “i’ve been pulling plugs out of their sockets. convincing people they can afford one more slice of pie. telling them that they can wait one more day before starting on their work.”

Gaster pauses. “Is that your idea of demonic deeds?”

“hey,” Sans says, slightly defensive. “we can’t all do the whole carnage shtick. besides, they get real angry when their cellphones die in the middle of the day. and when they berate themselves for their lack of control. and stress. that’s where all the corruption is at - stress.“

“I see,” Gaster says. “Is that what you’ve been doing here, with that church?”

Sans freezes. Gaster looks at him, his smile remaining as placid as a lake.

“I’ve been watching you, dear boy,” Gaster continues, and Sans holds back a wince as the fingers turn sharp, scratching at the fine bones in his hand. “You’ve been talking a lot with one of the brothers, haven’t you? A mortal skeleton?“

“heh.” How much did Gaster see? What could he say? “you saw that? i… i wanted to keep it a surprise.”

“A surprise?“

“yep. you gotcha. a surprise. i’ve been, uh, playing the long game. corrupting a being of the cloth who had sworn himself to the gods, so on and so on.” Sans smiles, and hopes that Gaster can’t see right through him.

“Starting with a bang, are we,” Gaster says, almost approvingly, lacing their fingers together, trapping Sans’ hand between his own. Sans wants to tug away. He knows better.

(He’s been taught better.)

“This should be very, very interesting,” Gaster muses, his gaze moving past Sans to the church. “I had thought that you required an intervention, but I see there is no need for one.”

“i’ve got it handled,” Sans tells him.

“Perhaps. I expect results, my boy.” The hands tighten on his, and he can feel the way the bones are rubbing together under the pressure. He winces again, and notices how Gaster’s smile become a bit more genuine. “Anything else would be… disappointing.“

The other demon finally lets go, and Sans retracts his hand, hiding it under his cloak. He returns his gaze to Sans, his gaze unsettling and intrusive.

“Very, very interesting,” he says again, his smile growing eerily wider. “I shall return again.”

“looking forward to it,” Sans says, and watches as Gaster melts into himself, into the darkened haze and seeps back into the ground. He waits until the sun rises, when the birds dare to return to that part of the forest and sing again.

“…fuck.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ pssst! want a sneak peek at the next chapter? ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fdocs.google.com%2Fdocument%2Fd%2F12gxjAidbrQUbSFGk3_OGqWRq4IZ5s9GKFBa1EFqPNQE%2Fedit&t=MWU2MzdlODgzNTIyYzQzYmNjMDExN2Q1YTAwYWZhZjFiODM5NDNlNixkUHNpOE95Zw%3D%3D)


	3. is it really a backstory when you have amnesia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to askellie who's the one who made me focus more on this fic
> 
> shoutout to type for being cool

Hell is truly eternal torment.

He remembers seeing the mortals, monsters and humans alike, gathered below in one roiling mass. He remembers being held at the scruff over Gaster’s balcony, his hands clawing at Gaster’s own around his neck, simultaneously wanting to relieve the crushing pressure and needing to cling on. Gaster had been displeased at his reluctance to do whatever he said, and had finally lost his patience.

“It seems that you have a certain misconception,” Gaster had said, his tone ice cold compared to the boiling heat rising up from below. “You are here merely because I chose you to be, Sans.”

His hand tightens and Sans chokes, even though it shouldn’t matter because they’re all dead, you can’t die _twice_ \- but the intent is clear.

“You can join the rest of them down there,” Gaster says calmly, and Sans is all too aware of how if the other demon just lets go, Sans would plummet and get swept up into the crowd, never to emerge again. He would be trodden and pushed and crushed under the heaving mass of dead people and monsters clambering over each other to escape the unbearable heat below, all his injuries permanent and excruciating. In hell there is no hope for relief, no hope for reprieve.

“Or you could join us. Join me. I don’t need to tell you which is the better choice.“ 

Behind Gaster, something - no, someone shifts, someone moans pitifully. Sans hesitates; Gaster notices. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, Sans.” His voice turns gentle, tender, and it’s almost as if he’s forgiven Sans. “Did you honestly think that right and wrong still applies _here_?”

“You’re in hell,” he continues, “if you think that heaven will forgive you if you suddenly act the good and virtuous monster, after all you’ve done…" 

“but i don’t know what i’ve done,” Sans gasps. He feels the way condensation forms, slick around his neck, and imagines Gaster letting him slip from his grasp. His fingers dig into Gaster’s arm, but his own hands feel too damp, too slippery - barely able to hold on if Gaster decides to follow through on his threat. 

“Does it matter?” Gaster smiles mirthlessly. “You’re here with the demons and the damned. That alone should give you a clue.“

Gaster flings him back into the room, into safety - and Sans has never felt such relief from crashing into the cool stone floor. Several footsteps later, Gaster towers over him, eyes glowing a muted purple. 

“Choose, Sans,” he says. He extends a hand; a knife shines, dull in the light. In the corner, someone whimpers. “The demons, or the damned?" 

* * *

The blade shakes in his hand.

He feels himself grab the base of the wing, and feels himself press down. The demon attached to it wails, loud and piercing. 

* * *

“Good boy." 

* * *

Gods above, he is truly an idiot, isn’t he?

He’s a demon. He tore the wings off someone else’s back, and took them for his own; he held on as the horns forced themselves out of his skull, every inch formed causing him agony. He clawed his way to an assignment up above, something urging him on, _the surface the surface you have to go to the surface_ _-_

And here he was, and the mortal world was everything more than he could have imagined - or more than he could have remembered - and, foolishly, foolishly, he had thought that hell was behind him forever.

Hah.

He should have known Gaster had been watching. After all, Sans is his _favourite_ , even though he doesn’t want to be and has no idea why. All he remembers is coming to his senses on that cold, cold floor, with the demon standing before him. Maybe he had done something truly horrendous in his mortal life, and that’s why Gaster sees potential in him. That’s why Gaster had kept on urging him, nudging him, threatening him, being so patient even though Sans had disappointed him so many times.

Gaster, patient. The thought of Gaster possessing a virtue is almost blasphemous. 

If only he remembered, Sans thinks bitterly. Then maybe he would laugh at all the reservations he’s having, and instead of hesitation he’d be wreaking havoc with glee. 

Maybe it’ll be easier to just see the trust and hope drain right out of Papyrus’ face as the brother realizes how Sans could never rise above being a demon - 

Wait. 

I expect results, Gaster had said. Whatever Gaster expected, Gaster got - and Sans had witnessed first-hand how the demons that had failed him were slowly and painfully taken apart back in hell. There isn’t a shortage of people wanting to be demons in hell after all, especially not with an endless supply of mortals so eager to make deals and bargains with the devil himself. Failure was only met by eternal suffering, and nothing less. 

The thought of being torn apart, molecule by molecule as his screams joined the chorus of the eternally damned, and knowing that there would never be an end to his suffering is nothing short of terrifying. 

But the thing is, Gaster had never specified what results he was expecting - and demons failed all the time, because of literal deus ex machina. So technically Sans could make Papyrus realize how demons should never be trusted, _before_ he could be corrupted. If he played his cards right by playing his hand _wrong_ , he could convince Gaster that the gods themselves foiled him. 

And instead of Sans seeing Papyrus becoming twisted and jaded against the world, Sans would just see Papyrus becoming twisted and jaded against only him. 

It’s an acceptable trade off, says the same voice that had whispered to him ages ago. Regardless of whether Gaster forgives him or not. 

He should ask why. Why is he doing this at the risk of his own destruction? Why is he going against his very nature for one monster? Why does he need to make sure that Papyrus is safe, that Papyrus is protected? 

(The voice is silent.) 

Sans doesn’t ask.

* * *

He starts small. 

It’s a sobering thought, that Gaster might be watching his every move. This meant that Sans couldn’t just leave Papyrus for his own good - he has to orchestrate a believable scenario that would strike the balance between deception and its failure. A too obvious reveal would be too suspicious, and something too subtle might cause Papyrus to just look past the intentionally placed trail of Sans’ less than good intentions.  And like that saying about boiling frogs in water… 

So he starts with asking Papyrus to head down to the village with him. 

“I can’t do that,” Papyrus exclaims, almost scandalized. 

“but you’ve already swept everything,” Sans points out. The courtyard was practically bare of leaves, save for one that was mid-air, floating down towards the ground. He flicks it out of sight with a burst of magic. 

“It’s not right to play truant,” the brother says haltingly, like it’s a convenient excuse. After all, Sans is fairly sure that Papyrus tries to get out of sleeping, calling it a waste of time when he could be practicing his sermons - only to be hindered by the unfortunate method he has chosen to practice them. 

(“Shouting is very effective,” Papyrus says indignantly when Sans asks. “After all, everyone, even the gods, can hear you better that way!” 

Sans agrees, neglecting to point out that shouting meant the entire church knowing that Papyrus was clearly up past his curfew.) 

“only if you haven’t done your duties.” Sans grins - frustration was a hilarious look on the other skeleton. But they would only end up arguing in circles at this rate, so he tries a softer approach. 

"look,” he says, pitching his voice low and soothing. “if you’re worried about that person coming back, they’ll wait for you if they don’t find you here." 

"But,” Papyrus says. 

“just think about it,” Sans says reasonably. “they come all the way to find you, they gotta ask for you. and one of the church members will tell them you went out, right? seems like a stupid thing, to run off just because they aren’t physically there.” 

Papyrus stares at him doubtfully. Sans changes tack. 

"are you implying that person will be stupid?” he says lightly. 

“Of course not!” Papyrus says immediately, waving his broom as if he was warding away particularly persistent flies. “They will be as smart as I am! As honorable! As patient, and as great as I will be!" 

He keeps on talking. "And they will say, ‘Papyrus, I’m sorry for making you wait for so long - but I’m finally here’. Then they will hug me, and then ask - no, beg for my forgiveness. But it’s alright, because I will have already forgiven them!" 

"Mmmhmm,” Sans nods. “so will you go down to the village with me?" 

Papyrus stops. Sans smiles at him, wide and unassuming. 

“Well,” Papyrus stutters, and they’re back to square one. “Can’t we just hang out? Here?" 

“but there’s nothing to do here,” Sans points out, which is true. All they’ve been doing is talking, leaning on the fence, watching Papyrus sweep up leaves and dispose of them in neat little piles. Sans definitely could not go in unless he wanted to get reacquainted with his barely healed injuries, so it makes perfect sense that Papyrus has to come out. 

_might as well go all out_ , he thinks. 

“aren’t we friends?“ 

Papyrus splutters, and the demon almost feels bad for cornering him. Almost.

"Of course we are,” Papyrus stammers. 

“we’ll be really quick,” Sans wheedles. “how much time can it take, really? all we’re doing is grabbing a snack. i’m hungry.“ 

“I can make some spaghetti,” Papyrus says, suddenly extremely eager to Sans’ lack of surprise. 

"isn’t the kitchen busy right now?” Sans interjects. From the disappointed look on Papyrus’ face, it probably is. “besides,” he adds, almost like an afterthought, “i doubt a church would be happy feeding _me_ of all monsters." 

Papyrus looks at him, allowing an unusual silence in the lull of their conversation, and Sans suddenly feels more self conscious than he should be - because he actually doesn’t need to be fed. He doesn’t need to explain why he shouldn’t be eating any food from a church. It should be obvious enough what would happen the moment any other members of the clergy realize that their youngest member was talking to a demon of all things. 

And still, but still, Papyrus is still here. 

"The church feeds the hungry,” the brother says, unusually solemn. "We help all those who are in need of help.” A small smile, warm and gentle, directed at Sans and oh, how Sans wants to keep that smile on him so. “And that will always include you, if you ever do need it." 

(And in that instance, Sans knows that Papyrus will be a great priest. Prayers can only go so far the moment the decision that someone is unworthy to receive them is made - and how big can Papyrus’ heart be, if he has decided that a demon is worthy? 

And in the same instance, Sans mourns that he will never get to see Papyrus as one.) 

Instead he grins, lazy and seemingly unaffected. His tail winds nervously down his leg, fortunately hidden by the fabric of the cloak. 

"well, i need the church to escort me in buying a cinnamon bunny,” he winks. “i’m also willing to compensate them for their services with one.“ 

He sees the moment temptation appeals to Papyrus, his eyelights flicking once, twice, at the wooden door of the church. The other skeleton absent-mindedly twists his grip around the handle of his broom, like he’s wringing a piece of cloth, and Sans decides to gently, gently, _push_. 

“two,” he offers. 

Papyrus puts the broom down. 

"We’ll be back within an hour,” he tries to assert, and Sans knows that he has won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another six months til the next update, cheers.

**Author's Note:**

> [pssst. too little chapters? ](http://www.sweetsinnerchild.tumblr.com)


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